


Painted Blind

by Nny



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Misunderstandings, unapologetic fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 16:52:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13505742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: Everyone kissed everyone, back in the circus. It wasn’t much of anything, blame placed squarely on Josef’s hooch. Clint would’ve considered himself kind of an expert on kissing before this, before this dark room and hot mouth and hard chest that was all that was keeping him vertical. He could feel another moan vibrating in his throat, and the guy he was with grabbed his shirt where it hit the small of his back, clenched his hand there and tugged Clint in closer.





	Painted Blind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flawedamythyst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/gifts).



Truth was, Clint wasn’t sure how long his disguise was gonna hold out. So far he’d survived by keeping his damned mouth shut, kept up the mid-year transfer mystique, curled his lip at anyone who looked his way. Barney had promised he’d come back for him soon, left his leather jacket to add weight to it, and even though it was a little big, curled over his fists, he wore it to school every damn day. He kinda thought it made him look like a badass, made him look like something a little more interesting than the ex-carnie half-deaf loser who spent his evenings watching Dog Cops while his newest foster mom taught him how to play bridge.

One thing fostering had taught him was how to stay under the radar, how to be invisible, so how the hell he’d ended up at a party thrown by _Tony Goddamn Stark_ was just… beyond him. Mind-blowing. Probably Steve Rogers’ fault.

Steve Rogers was a study in contradictions. It was impossible to go five minutes in the school without knowing who Steve Rogers was. He was a clean-cut side-parting blond-haired blue-eyed American dream who dressed like someone’s grandpa and drew himself endless colourful Sharpie tattoos. He was the nicest guy you’d ever meet who ended up in the principal’s office for fighting at least twice weekly. He was the champion of lost causes, the defender of the weak, and best friends with a guy who looked a little bit like he ate the weak for breakfast.

And he’d wandered up to Clint after the English class they shared and grinned his wide, white, all-American grin and shot the shit for a minute or two, his shadow glowering behind him. Clint hadn’t even known the guy knew his name before that point, but there they were, talking canteen slop and jazz band, with Bucky Barnes leaning against a desk nearby and drawing Clint’s eye every time he even shifted his weight.

Bucky Barnes wore leather jackets a hell of a lot better than Clint did. He had long hair, stormy-gray eyes, a scowl like a thunderstorm and a reputation for finishing whatever Steve Rogers started. Half the student population were terrified of him, half of them wanted to fuck him, and Clint was neatly straddling that line in the middle and was having trouble looking away.

“ – see you there?” Steve said, and Clint’s attention had snapped back to him, wide-eyed and no doubt looking like an idiot.

“Sure,” he’d said, nodding.

“It’s at the Stark Mansion, you seriously can’t miss it,” Steve said, and he’d given Clint another one of those uncomplicatedly lovely smiles that Clint really ought to like more than scowls and stubble and shit, he was staring again.

“Okay,” he’d said, and did his best not to cower back when Steve walked away and Bucky followed him, nudging his shoulder against Clint’s as he passed.

“Later, Barton,” he’d said, and how the fuck could Clint resist that?

So here he was. Surrounded by people he didn’t know, seeking refuge in shitty beer, hearing aids rendered essentially fuckin’ useless by the repetitive pounding bass. Eventually he gave up, took ‘em out and shoved them in his inside pocket, settling in with the muffled ocean of bass and indistinguishable conversation.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d’ve gotten to see Bucky in his party clothes. He’d got a grin and a thumbs-up from Steve, looking delighted to see him, looking like they were the best of friends, but so far it didn’t look like Bucky had even bothered to show. And it wasn’t like… it wasn’t like Clint felt let down, it wasn’t like his ‘see you later’ had been anything other than polite, but polite from Bucky was rare and reserved for the barest few, so forgive him if he’d been hoping for a nod or a sideways grin.

Clint sighed, considered for a minute the five minute fame that Ultimate Beer Pong Champ always brought, but decided it wasn’t worth letting people learn his name. Instead he ignored the guy lounging at the base of the stairs, half-hearted attempt to keep people contained. He planted his feet on the moulding, swung himself up on the banisters, and hopped over to make his way upstairs.

Away from the speakers it was quieter, at least, and he wandered the hall curiously, picking up ornaments that probably cost more than the house he was staying in, peeking into huge and dust-sheet shrouded rooms. He didn’t hear anyone coming – of course he didn’t hear anyone coming – but when he reached the last room on the left a warm body crowded up behind him.

“Shit, sorry man,” Clint said, “I shouldn’t –“ but he was getting nudged forward even as he spoke, pushed through the door which was then firmly shut behind them, and blackout curtains shading the windows left him without anything but his breathing, but the low murmur of a voice that he couldn’t make out.

“Whoa,” Clint said, and put his hand out in front of him, hitting a solid chest far sooner than he’d thought. He slid his hand up without thinking, the gentle rumble of someone talking not stopping them from tilting their head back and a little sideways, letting him trace his fingers along their neck. Clint went for their mouth, meaning to shut them up long enough that he could explain that he couldn’t fuckin’ _hear_ them, but he overshot – or maybe got it just exactly right, his finger running over and then slipping between soft lips, sucked gently into the guy’s mouth and then held between his teeth, tongue running over his fingertip.

Clint had no clue what the hell noise he made, but thank god it didn’t have chance to last for long. Whoever it was – and Clint was headed right past caring whoever it was, holy shit – cut him off with their mouth, off centre and clumsy first and then resituated, perfectly placed, easing Clint’s mouth open with gently teasing touches and then sliding his tongue inside.

Everyone kissed everyone, back in the circus. It wasn’t much of anything, blame placed squarely on Josef’s hooch. Clint would’ve considered himself kind of an expert on kissing before this, before this dark room and hot mouth and hard chest that was all that was keeping him vertical. He could feel another moan vibrating in his throat, and the guy he was with grabbed his shirt where it hit the small of his back, clenched his hand there and tugged Clint in closer.

 _Fuck_ , Clint felt himself say, _fuck, please_ , and he wasn’t entirely clear what he was asking for. More, maybe. More of anything, more sensation, more contact. Instead he got a couple of slow soft kisses that eased things off, that cooled things down a little, that made Clint feel kind of like an idiot for how he couldn’t catch his breath. He was maybe even shaking, a little, his hand unsteady when it was brought to the other guy’s mouth, when a gentle kiss surrounded by stubble was placed in the palm of it before the door – the hallway light dazzling after the darkness – was pushed open, a solid silhouette blocked it out for a second, and then the harsh light returned for the seconds it took the door to swing closed.  

Clint fumbled awkwardly for his hearing aids, shoved them into place quickly and felt around for the door handle, but by the time he hit the hallway, whoever it was had gone.

 

Clint hadn’t even had much to drink, had certainly had practice at drinking far more, but he couldn’t have explained how the hell he got home, and there was still some of that confused fog hanging around him when he went to school the next day. Wasn’t often you got what was inarguably the best damned kiss of your life and then got left behind right after; Clint wasn’t sure whether to be elated or miserable – he guessed it depended on how many dark rooms he could reliably hide himself in and uselessly hope.

He made his way to his locker, filled his bag with the books he needed and then fished out a crumpled piece of paper; the crumpled wasn’t out of place, but the penmanship sure as hell was. He’d seen it before, usually in a swirl of red and blue sharpie, and holy shit, if _Steve Rogers_ was the guy who’d kissed him, if it was popular, good looking, too damn good for him Steve…

Clint was gonna be fuckin’ disappointed, and he hadn’t even known he was hoping.

 _Equipment shed @ 11,_ it said, nothing else, and Clint chewed his lip through the first two classes of the day, wondering what in the hell he was going to do. It didn’t help that Bucky - and Bucky’s stubble, and the broad shoulders that Clint had secretly hoped for – was absent from the classes they shared, just like he had been absent from the damned party. God, Clint was an idiot. He hauled his bag onto his shoulder and slipped out of the fire door at ten before eleven, shuffling without any real energy towards the equipment shed that stood at the edge of the football field, mentally panicking over what in the _hell_ he was going to say. And then something shifted, some flash of bright color that drew his attention like a magnet to where Steve Rogers and Tony Stark were making a poor attempt at hiding, just out of sight of anyone who was approaching the equipment shed from directly ahead.

And if Tony and Steve were in on whatever the hell this was, then Bucky sure as hell knew, and how in the hell far had his stomach got ahead of him in this? ‘cos this level of disappointment, of _betrayal_ was completely out of any proportion to how well he knew them, to how much he thought any one of them cared.

It still goddamn _hurt_.

Clint stormed away, rounding the goal post and heading for the bleachers where a lone dark figure was sitting, ‘cos who else could it be?

“You didn’t show,” Bucky said, low and flat, and Clint felt a rush of entirely justified anger which was partly fuelled, partly formed by how goddamn _good_ Bucky looked sitting there, his heavy-booted foot propped on the bench in front of him, jeans pulled tight across his thighs, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket. He was glowering at the running track like _he_ had a reason to be pissed and Clint kinda wanted to hit him.

“Damned right I didn’t show,” he told him, “fuck you, and fuck Steve, and fuck Tony Stark for that. What kinda asshole do you have to –“

“Wait. Tony? What?”

“You thought I wouldn’t see them hiding there? What, was it gonna be filmed? Make me look like a goddamn idiot in front of everyone in the school?”

“Woah, Clint, I don’t – whaddaya mean, hiding?”

“By the shed,” Clint said, gesturing quick and dismissive and then returning his arm to where it was wrapped across his chest, holding the strap of his bag, holding his heart in place.

“What shed?” Bucky said, genuinely confused, and increasingly pissed. “Oh fuck, Steve, what’s that punk –“ He made a move like he was gonna shove to his feet and Clint backed off a little, skittish. It made Bucky sit down again, anyway, run a hand through his hair. “I meant – last night,” he said, and wouldn’t look up at Clint as he spoke. “I – you didn’t come to the diner, after –“ and he made a helpless kinda gesture that involved his hand moving just the barest towards his mouth.

“You wanted me to - I couldn’t _hear_ you,” Clint said, but there was something fizzing a little helplessly in his stomach, now. “You know I’m deaf, right?”

“You had your aids in when I arrived,” he was told, impatiently. “I know you’re deaf, Clint, I’ve been learnin’ –“ Bucky said, then cut himself off and blushed all the way up to his ears.

“Sign?” Clint said, and his voice got a little squeaky there. “You’ve been –“ _for me?_ He signed, and Bucky ducked his head, focused on his hands as he carefully formed _slow, please, I’m learning._

“Holy shit,” Clint said, dazed, helpless. “Holy shit, Bucky, you –“ and words just seemed to inadequate when presented with Bucky’s stumbling fingers, so instead Clint cupped his chin and tilted his head back a little, clambered over so he was straddling his lap and could settle in to kiss him thorough, and deep, and slow. And screw the best kiss of his life – this was so much goddamned better when he could see Bucky rumpled and breathless, could see him blush all warm and pretty.


End file.
